


Wouldn’t it be nice?

by podcastalien



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, R+, Slurs, kissing bridge, richie is lovesick, richie’s parents love him okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 21:09:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20180761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/podcastalien/pseuds/podcastalien
Summary: Richie wonders what exactly is supposed to be so great about being a kid as he tries to carve initials into the kissing bridge.





	Wouldn’t it be nice?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Fair warning: homophobic slurs are used briefly in here.

Richie Tozier doesn’t know if he wants to be a kid forever, per say. Hell, dealing with only thirteen years of being a kid had him jostled and tossed him around like a pinball in one of those shitty, non-street fighter games at the arcade. But Richie had also seen enough three dollar movies at the Aladdin, read enough of Bev’s Nancy Drew books, (_aye the broad wasn’t so bad at solving mysteries okay? Cut him some slack_), and heard enough of his parents talking to know that he _should_ _want_ to be a kid forever. 

Some bullshit about “Not having to worry about  _ real _ problems,” as a teacher had once put it to him. Well he had  _ spent the whole goddamn summer fighting a fucking clown demon and came within an inch of his life multiple times, is that a real fuckin’ problem, Ms. Clique?  _ Though if he wrote that on one of his essays he’d surely be sent to the principal’s office, then to the shrink with a note of concern. You weren’t really  _ allowed _ to have problems either as a kid, because if you were one of the poor bastards that your teachers or folks saw as a “problem child,” they’d send you to a million people to be poked and pried at. Richie had been through enough of that in the fourth grade, when his teacher thought tapping your fingers on your desk and shaking your leg was some kind of a disease and told his mom on him, thank you very much.

But Richie also supposed those movies and books and conversations were made by adults who had had the average, American childhood. One of sugary sweet summers and full cheeked pictures in the yearbook and kiddie pigtail pulling crushes. 

_ Oh yeah, that.  _

Maybe Bill and Bev and the rest of the lot hadn’t had the childhoods the poems had told them about, but they had that last part. That made them more average than Richie. Richie, who had been promised by those movies and songs and adults, that when the time came, there’d be a nice girl waiting to break his heart for the first time. 

He wished that was why he was at the kissing bridge. He wished at least that part could be normal. Instead, he was kneeling with Stan’s old pocket knife, which he gave to Richie when his dad bought him a nicer one, in his sweaty right hand carving his initial into the old wood panel. He took his time carving a little plus sign and then he paused.  _ It’s not like anyone would know what it was for.  _ He quickly looked over his shoulder for the bowers gang,  _ which didn’t even exist anymore,  _ he thought with a shudder. He breathed in deeply and stuck the sharp end of the knife into the wood, trying to start the next letter. He pressed down hard without moving it. 

Voices rung in his ears, all of the sudden he couldn’t see anything in the dark closet of freese’s underwear department. 

“Where the fuck are you you four eyed  _ fag _ ?” Henry’s voice asked. 

The news channel in the background as his parents cooked, “Two  _ homosexual _ men were attacked this evening.” 

Someone on the street in the way horn from school, a boy talking to his girlfriend, “So turns out Derrick is a fucking  _ queer _ .”

The knife dropped out of his hand and onto the ground, “Shit!” He shouted, without really meaning to. He gave a swift kick to the bridge.  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid.  _

In all honesty, he didn’t know why he was doing this. So maybe he had a crush, if you could even call it that, being what it was. But it didn’t mean anything. 

He couldn’t take Eddie to the prom, or hold his hand in freese’s while they trailed behind the rest of the losers, or double date at the diner with Bill and Bev. He thought about all that a lot.  _ Eddie might not even be like him, whatever that meant.  _ He wished it changed the way he felt in his chest. Maybe it did a little, butterflies, like every smug adult had described, but with something heavier too. He’d feel flutters in his stomach with the brush of hands, but something ache in his chest, like someone was sitting on it. 

Richie picked up the knife again, switching the blade in and out, fiddling. He was nervous. Buzzing at the prospect of this little gesture that no one would know about except for him. 

_ Fucking pussy,  _ he thought.  _ If you can’t handle this part of it how the fuck are you gonna deal with the real stuff, Tozier?  _

** _Real stuff? _ ** He caught himself on the thought. It’s not like he was going to go through with the real stuff. This was just a stupid crush. Kiddie crush. A freak kiddie crush. But not real. It couldn’t be. He's just a weird kid getting a bit too comfy with his best friend. He’s sure it’s happened before. To other weirdos. 

Maybe that was the comfort in being a kid. Nothing had to be too real. Richie could go home and steal his dad’s playboys and pretend like Eddie didn’t even exist.  _ Or could he? He hadn’t really tried it.  _

“God damnit,” he muttered and rubbed his hands over his tired eyes. 

Maybe he wouldn’t mind if it was real. If it was just him and Eddie and no one else. Maybe the losers, depending on how they reacted. But Richie thinks he wouldn’t mind being an adult, doing the tedious tasks they described if it meant  _ maybe _ he and Eddie could be shacked up in some little house together. Maybe on the coast. No, he wouldn’t mind paying the electric bill or doing his taxes. Hell, he was good at math and he’d probably end up famous anyway. Having a job didn’t seem so bad when the trade off was something he couldn’t get as a kid. His own house, the privacy to be the freak he was with whoever he wanted, he supposed. Safety. Maybe the world would be a little more safe when he grew up.

He shook his head, as if to shake the thought out.  _ Stop it.  _ He moved his leg forward and brought his arm back, like he was coming in for a punch, and tossed Stan’s knife into the woods, letting it go with a grunt.

He stared at the trees for a moment, the leaves were being to fall, but it was still summery warm outside. He felt pain tug at his chest. He considered looking around for the knife, but found he didn’t have the heart to do anything besides petal home at a speed he hoped would put chase his thoughts. 

He pulled into the Tozier driveway and opened the small garage. He tossed his bike on the wall, not caring to put up the kick stand. It could take a beating, it certainly had before. He could hear faint music from inside the house, accompanied by off tune singing.  _ Great, both his parents were home. _

He trudged into the house, kicking off his converse haphazardly. 

The late afternoon light pooled into the Tozier house, his mother’s glass vase twinkled at its spot near the entrance to the kitchen. The voices got louder as he moved in closer. Richie recognized the muffled, slightly staticy sound as one of his dad’s old records. If the record player was spinning, it meant everyone in the house was in a good mood. Everyone except Richie.

“Hey, Kid!” His father greeted him with a smile. His eyes were on Richie but his arms and legs were occupied with twirling Richie’s mother around. She laughed lightly and fell into his arms. Her long dark curls, now with a few shiny grey strands fell over her shoulder. The crows feet around her eyes pinched and tightened as she smiled up at Wentworth, lavender dress swaying. It was an old house dress, but in the moment, she made it seem as though it were one she had just bought for dancing. He held her, there in his arms, for a moment. Richie looked from his father to his mother, who loved each other more than anything. Who loved him. Who had grown old together, who had been young together, who were getting older together, who had never hidden their love. He understood the look his father reserved for his mother now. He now had it himself, his own secret smile, his own twinkle in his eyes for only one person. 

“Richie?” His mom asked, pulling her eyes away from his father, concern at the concerns of her mouth.

He felt his lip quiver involuntarily and the music felt louder all of the sudden, accompanied by a loud ringing in his ear. 

_ Wouldn't it be nice if we were older _

_ Then we wouldn't have to wait so long? _

_ And wouldn't it be nice to live together _

_ In the kind of world where we belong? _

He let himself wonder, illogically, for a second if this was some elaborate set up to mock him. The bridge, the dancing, the stupid song. The words crackled in his ears as his vision blurred with wetness. 

The record kept spinning with a cheeriness that felt morbidly out of place.

_ You know it's gonna make it that much better _

_ When we can say goodnight and stay together.  _

“Hey, what’s wrong?” His dad reached out an arm to him, attempting to grab his shoulder. 

Richie stepped back. 

“Don’t,” he spat out, not meaning to.

He didn’t have the right to be mad at his parents, but how could he not be?

“Sweetie what’s going on?” His mother cooed, her voice too sweet. 

He wiped his eyes with his arm, “Nothing.” He answered with a cracked voice.

“Richie you’re crying.”

“I just need to be alone okay!” He shouted, “Please.” His parents’ faces of worry were now painted with a bit of shock. 

“Can I go to my room now, please?” He asked, staring at the floor. His father nodded, stepping out of the way so Richie could get to the stairs. 

“We love you,” he heard called up as he made the home stretch to his bedroom.

He slammed the door shut. 

Richie let himself fall asleep, clothes on and light coming in through his windows.

He woke up to a knocking sound. 

“Shit,” the red numbers on his bedside clock read 1:47 a.m.

His feet hit the floor and he followed the sound to the window, where he was met by a familiar face.

“Eds?” 

“Yes it’s me open the fucking window before I fall off your house!” The boy whisper shouted.

Richie did as he was asked.

“What are you doing here?”

Eddie slid in the window with relative ease, but needing the help of Richie’s hand on his.

“You were supposed to come to the Aladdin with us tonight, remember? Why’d ya bail?” 

Eddie was wearing a big hoodie, too big for him, he looked like a mini burglar but damn if it wasn’t cute. Richie couldn’t give him an answer, he only stared into his shining brown eyes, colored by the moonlight.

“Richie? Hello?”

“Oh, gee I don’t know, Eds, maybe I was busy with your mom.” 

Eddie looked at him skeptically and put a hand on his forehead.

“You feelin’ alright Trashmouth?”

_ His head wasn’t hot before, but it would be now. _

“Yeah,” he said, pulling Eddie’s arm away, “Sorry I’m not exactly pepped up at 2 o’clock in the morning, I wasn’t exactly expecting visitors.”

Eddie looked slightly wounded, embarrassed maybe.

“Fuck, okay. Sorry I was worried about you.” He kicked his shoes off and sat on Richie’s bed.

“How’d you get over here anyway?”

He shrugged, “You’re not the only one who can sneak out and scale a wall, Tozier.” 

“You were really that worried about me? Aw, Eds.” He teased and tossed himself on the bed next to him, leaning his head into his shoulder.

“Whatever.” Eddie mumbled.

Silence fell over the room for a second and Richie was hit with an idea, probably a bad one, but one he didn’t have the energy to monitor sitting so close to Eddie.

“Do you wanna come down stairs with me? I want to show you something.”

“Um, yeah. Okay.”

Richie stood and held out his hand, Eddie took it after a moment.

He led them down the stairs and flicked on the lights, he took a look around, finding that the record player was still out, he ran to it.

“Richie what are you-“

He nervously picked up the record marked beach boys, placed it on the player, and let the needle down onto it. He sucked in a breath as the song started. Courage coursed through his veins at the strange hour. Now was as good a time as any.  _ Maybe, definitely _ , they were still kids, stupid and dumb and vulnerable,  _ more than most, _ under the artificial kitchen lights at night. But maybe it was quiet enough for Richie to be comfortable with that. Easy to believe they were in some house in the north of California, with enough rooms and beds to sleep alone, but they shared one nonetheless. At this time of night, it was easy to believe they were the only people on earth. 

“Eddie,” he held a hand out, “Dance with me?”

Eddie quirked an eyebrow, but took it just the same, 

“You’re a weirdo ya know that?”

Richie took his arm and spun him, making him laugh at the corners of his eyes, where wrinkles might be one day. 

“Yeah, so are you.”

_ Wouldn't it be nice if we could wake up _

_ In the morning when the day is new? _

_ And after having spent the day together _

_ Hold each other close the whole night through.  _

They swayed, moving closer together slowly, achingly. Richie could feel the inches separating them in his lungs. Richie reached out a hand and placed it on Eddie’s hip, pulling him closer, hesitantly. Eddie followed his hand, their faces close as they met eyes. 

“Richie-“ 

“It’s okay,” he said, “It’s just you and me, Eds.” 

Eddie broke his eyes away, letting his head fall on Richie’s shoulder, moving it against his neck. 

Richie rubbed circles on his back as they swayed in tandem. 

Maybe that was enough for now. Just to be together, in the dark, like they couldn’t be any other time. They both felt it. That was enough. For now.

For now they were young, for now they could dream in each other’s arms.  _ Maybe that’s why it was good to be young _ , Richie thought,  _ young enough to dream.  _

_ You know it seems the more we talk about it _

_ It only makes it worse to live without it _

_ But let's talk about it _

_ Oh, wouldn't it be nice? _

But then again, maybe some children are born having to wait. Always looking over their shoulder to see if it’s safe, to breathe, to feel close to each other. Some kids spend everyday waiting for the moment when they don’t have to hold back anymore. Living each day on the hope that adult life will be better, easier. Dancing there, Eddie’s head on his shoulder, Richie prayed that moment would be waiting for him too.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hey I’m on my bullshit!!! R + E!!!!  
let me know what you thought pls. Also sorry for mistakes I wrote this in a day and didn’t edit bc I don’t have the energy for that high key.  
Tumblr: coffeekaspbrak


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